Eavesdropping
by Polly Little
Summary: Alone on the landing, N. Italy listens to Austria, Hungary, and Prussia argue about the fate of HRE. Frying Pangle, Historical Hetalia, more Hurt than Comfort.


Tiny feet in tiny boots dangle between the banisters over a drop that seems almost an abyss to their tiny owner. Far below, the soft glow of a candle begins to warm the oak paneled walls with its flickering light casting exaggerated shadows through the suddenly open doorway, and Italia Veneziano leans forward to hear after an almost cartoonish cautious check behind him.

"And this... Idea of yours. It will succeed? You are certain of it?" A nervous sounding whisper echoes up the draughty staircase in the haughty tones of an aristocrat, although the hidden concern is obvious to anyone who had spent the best part of a century living with its owner.

"No." The abrupt dismissal, however, much louder than a whisper, would sound rude to anyone, regardless of their personal relationships. "Of course I'm not certain, but are you certain it won't?"

"Well, no, but-" the first voice begins petulantly, only to be interrupted by the second.

"It can't really make things worse!"

Grating laughter follows this statement, followed by a metallic hollow thud. Veneziano had grown used to this sound as well - someone had been hit with a frying pan, and quite hard too.

"Gilbert!" scolds a third voice. The shadows in the hallway flicker as someone hastily moves a candle, probably to prevent it from being upset, and to Veneziano's childish mind it looks as if they're leaning away from the irate woman. "That was completely unnecessary!"

"Really Ezzie? My apologies, I had no idea." The fake innocence wouldn't fool a micronation, and Veneziano pulls his feet up and begins to fiddle with the hem of his nightshirt, not interested in what comes next. He's already heard the argument far too many times over the past year - after he laid one too many places at the table, after Austria had found the keys to a certain suite had mysteriously vanished into Hungary's apron pocket, after Poland had suggested giving Veneziano of all people a sword, after Prussia had "absolutely covered the entire hallway in filth" after a sparring session - he doesn't need to hear it again. Even so, it is unusual to hear Hungary and Prussia on opposing sides.

"You knew very well how we would react; that was why you said it!"

"No, I said it because it was _true._ It's not my fault you reacted badly."

"Not your fault? Just like it isn't your fault our child has been lying in bed in my room, slowly bleeding to death for the past year?"

The air grows cold, even up where Veneziano is eavesdropping on the landing, and he can almost hear Prussia stop breathing. He screws his eyes shut tight and hugs his knees, as if the darkness will protect him from hearing this, as if he can close his ears as well if he tries hard enough, and hopes that this doesn't make the shouting worse, as their chairs scrape across the polished floorboards and their words begin to fly like poisoned arrows.

"What would you know? What would you know about what's my fault and what isn't?"

"You were on the battlefield! I'm not allowed to even _look_ at a sword anymore!"

"Exactly! You weren't even there!"

"But why was he?"

"Because he's a Nation, and that's what Nations do! They fight, and bargain, and pretend to care about each other so the humans leave them alone!"

They're shouting much louder than any human could manage now, and Veneziano can feel the floor shaking. This is why all the servants have left, terrified of being caught in the crossfire, and Veneziano wishes more than anything that he could join them.

"Pretend to care? _Pretend to care?_ Is that what you think I've been doing, what we've been doing? Well, if you're pretending, you can leave. A child has been stabbed, Gilbert!" Her voice breaks, and Veneziano starts to feel like he's intruding on something private for the first time in months as it drops to a more human volume.

"Our child, our Heinrich. Of course, the great _Kongreich Preußen_ doesn't care, but I'm losing a son, Roderich's losing a son. This isn't a _matter_ for Prussia, Hungary, and Austria, this shouldn't be something you have to pretend to care about. If you don't care, get out."

There's a moment of silence that lasts far too long until Veneziano realises Prussia's actually considering it. Someone's sobbing, heavy, shoulder shaking sobs, and it's with shock that he realises it's Hungary - no, Ezrebet, Hungary as a Nation is far too proud to cry.

"Ezzie, I – I didn't…" Prussia begins to speak, awkwardly stumbling over his words before trailing off.

"Didn't what, _Prussia?"_

Austria finally steps back into the argument with all the precision of an assassin in the dark, voice as smooth as Prussia's is rough and somehow twice as sharp. "Didn't just say you were using us to save your own sorry skin?"

"No, I – well, yes, I did – but," he groans with frustration, and Veneziano can almost see him throwing his hands up in surrender. "God, Specs, you know I didn't mean it."

"Austria," said Nation states coldly, walking into the doorway with posture as rigid as a soldier's – shoulders back, chin up – and Veneziano knows that if he were any closer there would be a steely look in Austria's purple eyes that would almost counteract the faint quiver of his lower lip.

"What?"

"I'm sure you heard. From now on, you call me Austria, Prussia, and the next time you darken my doorstep with your blasphemy-"

Prussia cuts him off here, stepping far enough forward that Austria has to take a step over the threshold to avoid falling. Unlike Austria's seemingly calm poise, he's shaking with anger, all sharp angles and harsh edges with his pale fists clenched tightly around the cuffs of his jacket and a thin trickle of blood coming from where he's bitten through his lip.

"Blasphemy? Is it really blasphemy that I want to save my brother – the boy you claimed to care for as a "son", the boy currently bleeding to death?"

Backlit by the fire, Austria looks every bit of his eight hundred and thirty years despite his immaculate dark hair and fancy suit. "It's unnatural, at best, and necromancy, at worst."

Prussia frowns, not seeing why this should concern him. "Your point?"

"It's heresy," Hungary comments quietly; still inside the room where Veneziano can't see her, but he knows she must be picking at the edging on her apron since she passed on the habit to him. " "A man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them." Leviticus 20:27."

"Saul and the medium of Endor mean nothing to you then?" Prussia asks, gesturing wildly as if plucking examples from the air. "He was a heretic and ought to be stoned? Or Jesus himself? He was a heretic? Are you suggesting stoning God's son?"

The references go over Veneziano's head, but he wouldn't expect any less from the former Teutonic Knights.

"No, Prussia," Austria cuts in, two white spots of anger blossoming in the arcs of his cheekbones belying the slow drawl he's slipped into. "We're _suggesting_ that you accept Nature's decision as inevitable, and cease meddling with what you don't understand, although, seeing as this is you? You may have to give up anything more detailed than swinging a sword around."

"Nature. As if that applies to us," Prussia scoffs, red eyes glinting with sardonic humour, before his stance shifts to something far more intimidating. "As for "swinging a sword around", though, you might wish to get in some more practice. It wouldn't do for you to make a fool of yourself when I return for Heinrich."

"Gilbert, you wouldn't," Hungary breathes. Rising from her seat at last and moving into Veneziano's line of sight, she seems to consider pulling the other two back into the drawing room. He wants to run to her, to bury his face in her skirts as if that will stop their family from tearing itself apart ( _their alliance,_ he can't stop himself from thinking in a voice that has all of Poland's cynicism but Nonno Roma's tone when he warned his grandsons away from European politics), but he's suddenly irrationally afraid that she'd look down on him with the same disgust in her green eyes as he glimpsed when the armies of the Holy Roman Empire returned without the Holy Roman Empire.

"I wouldn't have to, if you two would see sense," Prussia barks back, then, with the usual cockiness obvious in its absence as he makes a show of pushing back unruly silver hair, he crosses the final line. "Hungary."

"Then so be it, Prussia," and unlike the other two, the title doesn't catch in her throat as she stares Prussia down. "You have a week to remove your belongings from the building."

Prussia swallows, but Veneziano knows he's too stubborn to take anything back. "How gracious of you."

Veneziano preferred the shouting to this, to Prussia's sulky voice barely carrying up the stairs, rasping even more than normal as he began to choke up. He pulls his feet back through the banisters as Austria and Hungary retreat into the drawing room, and begins to make his way back up the stairs to his room.

Halfway there, he stops, and casts one last look back at the entrance hall. The candlelight's gone now, hidden by the heavy door, and only the faint gleam of a moonbeam illuminates Prussia's silhouette, shoulders shaking as he leans against the wall.

 **A/N: Written for the prompt Secrets for the monthly oneshot challenge on Ceasar's Palace.**

 **HRE was officially dissolved December 1807, but HRE as a Nation was probably dead/dying in 1806.**


End file.
